


I Try To Picture Me Without You But I Can't

by wowthereswifiinhell



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s01e10 Buffet Froid, Fic Abandoned, Hannibal Lecter in Love, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is a god, He Just Doesn't Know It Yet, M/M, Minor Alana Bloom/Will Graham, Slow Burn, Tagging as I go, Will is a Mess, Will is a mortal, Will is in love, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-03-07 21:51:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wowthereswifiinhell/pseuds/wowthereswifiinhell
Summary: Hannibal Lecter is a fallen god. A god punished by Zeus, who has sent him to Earth to live a mortal's life. He becomes Will Graham's therapist, and yes, Hannibal falls in love. But eventually Will is going to die, or Hannibal will be summoned back to Olympus. How can he resolve this mess of emotions, before the final time that Will can't make it back from the brink of insanity?(Basically Hannibal the god falls in love with Will the mortal.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya!! I've had this idea for a while now, needed to write it out and I just thought that Hannibal would be the perfect god so... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> The first chapter is basically the prologue - they meet in Chapter 2. (and yes the title is part of FOB's song Immortals)
> 
> Enjoy and let me know how I got on!!

The god stands, bare golden skin shining silver in the moonlight. A singular moon shone down onto this foreign planet, casting a pearly filter over the curious landscape. Trees line the horizon, agriculture fields lie nearby, and the meadow grass tickles his feet. It all looks eerie to the other-worldly being, yet somehow appearing charming and elegant with its exotic beauty.

Looking up to the sky, he sees nothing abnormal – just different galaxies than he was accustomed to. No celestial bodies or distant stars situated within the orbit of his home planet, but newer, unfamiliar nebulas and solar systems.

He sighed at his current predicament, denying it, but realizing he would have to adapt to the unfortunate conditions. If he would ever be able to return to his home, he would have to do Zeus’ bidding. For now.

Scanning the environment he’d been dropped in, the naked god headed off in the direction where he could see glowing lights of an unknown civilization.

 

***

 

Will Graham left the police force years ago. And then they wanted him back. Not the cops specifically – but the FBI. Far, far worse than being just a cop working in homicide.

He’d been teaching a lecture on a murder when Special Agent Jack Crawford had walked in.

“Can I borrow your imagination?”

Except he’d said it in a way that had made it clear there was no other option for Will, one way or another he’d get Will working on the Shrike case.

And now here he was, having nightmares and hallucinations of the stag and of Hobbs.

And now here he was, slumped in a chair in Dr Sutcliffe’s office - Noble Hills Health Care Centre, _a hospital,_ waiting to be tested for a brain disease.

He’s fading in and out of reality. His mind is travelling back to Beth LeBeau’s crime scene, knife in hand, blood splattered over him like the work of a young child. He’s peeling back her face, looking for the real one.

A hand on his shoulder hauls him back to reality, Alana’s. She’s staring at him, concerned, and the look upon her face is reflected on Sutcliffe’s. They’d asked him a question, must’ve done.

Sutcliffe clears his throat. “As I said, when did your headaches begin in earnest?” Will reaches into the back of his mind, ending up not finding the answer. His voice is quiet and timid when he responds with a rough estimate. “Two to three months ago.”

“About the time when Will went back into the field, which is when I became his therapist.” Alana jumps in, helping him out. She knows he’s uncomfortable here, in a place that so many others would love to get their hands on his ‘ability.’

Sutcliffe nods. He asks another question, Will answers, Alana adds something. They talk idly for a few more minutes until they send Will into a small room where he removes his clothing and dresses in a hospital gown. It’s thin and flimsy, giving Will the notion the neurologist could peer clearly into his brain already, without a scan.

Soon enough, he’s hopping onto the bed of the MRI, the bubbly nurse talking at him, okay with Will’s reluctance to talk. He makes up for it in gloominess.

She hands him ear plugs, and offers comforting words before pressing buttons and tapping on a dial. Will pops the ear plugs in, blocking out the noise of the scanner, leaving a low hum of enclosed, whirring sound. The bed lurches, and the machine is pulling him in. Dimensions blur and Will can do nothing to stop it; he can see the underside of Beth LeBeau’s bed. Now he’s the killer. The red lights and screaming of the machine are a distant memory.

Water drips from the ceiling. He tilts his head to his left. It drips again. Footsteps approach, and he knows Beth is entering the room. A torch shines, she’s by the edge of the bed. She’s about to crouch down when Will lunges out and grabs her ankle.

Her scream is pure terror, loud and deafening. Soon enough, Will’s lying stock-still under the bed, side by side to the same woman, the woman with a slashed smile. It looks almost like she was greeting the killer with her inhuman grin. But Will knows he was trying to peel her skin off, remove the mask on the woman’s face.

There’s a thunderous, ear-splitting noise in Will’s head. It’s getting louder. Flashes of murders dart through his vision. Beth, the angels, the totem pole, the prison nurse. The noise is thunderous, reverberating through his head.

Will is thrown back to the present, gasping and sweating. The bed is pulling out of the MRI, and a nurse stands close, worry etched into her features. She asks if he’s okay, and Will can only nod and attempt at a feeble smile in response. He’s certain that she’ll tell Sutcliffe, even though he’s just viewed everything from the other side of the two-way mirror.

Soon enough, Will is standing in Sutcliffe’s office, his own clothes pulled tightly around him. Sutcliffe doesn’t mention what happened in the scanner room, and is instead looking at a brain scan on the computer screen. The left hemisphere is a pale, cool blue, but the right half is a loud, garish red. Dangerous. Will knows it’s his. Behind him, Alana stands, arms crossed and a grimace on her face. It doesn’t suit her.

“Will, I’m going to cut to the chase on this. The MRI has revealed that your right side of your brain is completely inflamed. It’s anti-MDMA encephalitis.” Sutcliffe pauses, glancing up at Will, making sure he’s paying attention. That he’s not freaking out.

“The symptoms are only going to get worse. You’re going to have to be treated in hospital, but fortunately you won’t be taken into an intensive care unit, although your encephalitis is advanced, I don’t believe it’ll take you too long to get back onto your feet.” The neurologist picks up a folder, opening it and scanning down the page, frown on his face.

Will is silent. He’s processing all of what Sutcliffe had said, absorbing the information. The walls of his throat feel like sandpaper, the words slipping from his lips raspy and quiet. “So… it’s going to stop? The hallucinations, loss of time?”

Sutcliffe’s eyes flicker up to Will’s, his face creased and relaxed. Will avoids his searching gaze. “For the most part, yes. You’re going to have to continue to take medication until it blows over, but you’ll be as good as new.” His smile drops and he turns to Alana. “He mustn’t ever go back to the field. That’ll put too much stress on his brain, and the encephalitis will be far more advanced and there’s a high possibility it will be terminal.”

There’s that noise back in his head, pounding on the inside of his cranium. Eyes fluttering shut, Will can feel himself being hauled back into that bedroom, the _crime scene_. He leans over from below the bed, muscles still with tension as Beth drops the torch onto her bed. He’s about to pull her under and take her life with his knife - but there’s a presence at his back. A peaceful one that presses into Will’s back. Nuzzling him.

Will pivots, and he watches the stag in front of him. It’s almost like an anchor, a strong presence to keep him grounded, but a heavy weight to carry. It’s staring at Will, blank, and the feathers on its back shimmer purple in the low light. Its antlers are taller this time, they’re nearly touching the ceiling. The office ceiling, Dr Sutcliffe’s office.

There’s a voice talking at him, and when Will shifts to pay attention, the stag disappears. It walks off, out the door, a swagger in its step. It looks back, once, and Will isn’t sure if it’s saying goodbye or just a _see ya later_.

Will’s finally jumped back to reality, when he hears Sutcliffe announcing the arrival of an ambulance. Alana’s looking at him, pity glinting in her eyes. His gaze flickers between each of them, finally meeting their eyes. It’s his cue to go. He stands, coat in hand, and attempts at smoothing out his jacket.

Sutcliffe walks them down to the back entrance where there’s a bored looking paramedic leaning against the wall. She pushes off, greeting them with an easy, practiced smile. Her blond hair flashes in the sunlight as she approaches them. Sutcliffe strides over and explains something to her, handing her a copy of Will’s file.

Alana rests her hand on Will’s arm, steering him to look at her. “I’ll go to your house and pick up some clothes for you, and I’ll look after the dogs while you’re gone,” Will’s given her a spare key, so she knows that she’s the second-in-command of Will’s many dogs. “I’ll bring Winston up tomorrow so you can see him if you’d like?”

Glancing up to make eye contact, Will realizes he can read her like an open book; worry, sadness and guilt all battling within her as they say their goodbyes, as she realizes she could’ve stopped this. He nods, giving her a weak smile as she pulls him into a hug.

“I’m so sorry Will, so sorry.” He returns her hug, her long curls tickling his face. He ends up prying her off him. She’s exasperated at what she’s done, and Will realizes just how much she cares for him. He hadn’t known just how much when they’d shared that kiss, but now he does.

She’s gathering herself together when Sutcliffe appears, paramedic at his side. She smiles at Will and jabbers on to him about the weather, her colleague driving the van, anything that seems to be a fleeting thought as she escorts Will to the van when the other paramedic jumps out from the cab and trots up to open the door. He’s chatty and just as energetic as his partner.

Will and the paramedics are both in the van now, and as the doors close, he catches a glimpse of Alana through the gap. She’s waving to him, with a hopeful mask plastered onto her face. He shuts his eyes, listening to the paramedics natter on to each other as they begin the ominous trip to the hospital.

 

***

 

Hannibal Lecter is currently a psychiatrist, once a surgeon gone local doctor; an artist, musician and poet in spare time.

Once a god.

He’s been on this earth seventeen years now, taking the identity of deceased Count Hannibal Lecter VII’s son. It hadn’t taken him long to track down a suitable being he could act as. No one alive knew of the mysterious circumstances the real Hannibal Lecter had perished from, and the mysterious man he had succumbed to. The people that did had all disappeared in odd circumstances, too.

Presently, Hannibal sits at his drawing desk, sketching faces locked away in the depths of his memory palace. One, a face similar to his original, but long, golden curls cascaded down her back. Another, a furious woman, loathing her husband and resenting his mother. A dragon leapt from its perch on her shoulder, claws outstretched to the face of his mother. He thinks the sketch is a twisted imitation of ‘The Creation of Adam.’

At least things were not half as chaotic down here. Just plain and boring.

Hannibal’s laptop pings, alerting him of a recent email. Placing his pencil down, he saunters over leisurely and peers at the alien technology, only recently accustomed to it. The email is from a previous student and colleague of his; Alana Bloom. __

_Dear Hannibal,_

_It has been a long time since we last spoke, and I hope you have not yet switched professions._

_I have a patient for you, a referral. He’s called Will Graham, and as of yet been diagnosed with encephalitis due to his work for the FBI. I have been treating Will with as much as I have to offer, but I can’t help but feel that I was partially responsible for his decline in health, and so I can no longer offer him therapy._

_You may of course, have heard of Will Graham, and I thoroughly hope that you will consider this proposal – I am at a loss for whom to turn to. Will is going to be released from the hospital in a matter of days, so I urge you to make haste in your decision._

_Regards,_

_Alana Bloom_

Reclining back in his chair, legs crossed, hands clasped together he ponders over the email. An agent from the FBI would certainly make his schedule all the more intriguing, perhaps even exciting. Not to mention that it’s Will Graham – renowned empath, and favourite talking point of the psychological community. He has been rumoured of many things, and the fraction of Hannibal in which his therapist voice sings loudest salivates at the prospect of analysing Graham.

Contemplating the advantages of the additional patient, Hannibal taps out a reply, fingers darting over the keyboard with practiced ease. __

_Alana,_

_How wonderful it is to hear from you._

_Upon reading your email to me, I have arrived at a decision that I shall take up your offer of this patient. I have been made aware of the rumours regarding Will Graham, and although that has not necessarily affected my final decision, I shall not let anything concerning them slip into our conversations._

_Contact me as soon as he is released from the hospital, and I shall arrange an appointment as early you see fit._

_Condolences,_

_H Lecter_

Sending the email, Hannibal clicks onto the search engine and googles ‘Will Graham.’ There are various news articles regarding the man, many by _TattleCrime.com_. ‘Shrike Catcher A Murderer?’ ‘Graham Takes Shrike’s Daughter Under His Wing’ ‘Graham Isn’t FBI?’ – all of the reports are from a journalist by the name of Freddie Lounds. They’re suspicious, to say the least. 

Hannibal smirks, eagerly anticipating the arrival of the profiler. He meanders over to the antique gramophone, selecting _‘Bach’s earliest symphonies’_ from the stack. He drops the needle, and a quiet, mournful melody weaves its way from the horn.

Pleased, Hannibal eases back down into the comfy chair at his drawing desk. Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he straightens his cuffs before depositing a new leaf of cartridge paper to sketch on. He begins to outline a new work, watching it take shape and form a similar identity to that of ‘The Last Supper.’ As he draws, he recognizes himself as Jesus, along with his sister, Hermes, Zeus and even Hera appear alongside to him.

He sketches into the night, watching faces from the past re-introduce themselves to him, before casting the page into the fire. He watches the sheet become warped and mangled, it was almost as if the faces were burning to their deaths in the Underworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well what did you think? Please leave a comment!!
> 
> (Also let me know if i should include smut later on)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s this huge amount of... of guilt. I should’ve seen the signs, stopped the illness, Will.”
> 
> “...Are you referring me?”
> 
> “He’s a good therapist, Will. I took a course of his not so long ago, in fact. He’s nice too, though he’s a little intense but I doubt it will take you too long before you find him interesting.”
> 
> “What’s this guy’s name?”
> 
> “Dr Hannibal Lecter.”
> 
> “…I’ll give it a go.”
> 
> *
> 
> In which Will and Hannibal meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I changed the tags because I've finally realized where I'm going with this fic so.. heh

The late afternoon sun is shining into his eyes when the IV is eased from the vein, slowly, but nonetheless painful. Smiling kindly at him, the nurse wheels the drip away. Will rubs the back of his aching hand, leaning forward to take the medication on the bedside table and throws back the pills one by one before rinsing his mouth and spitting the excess water away. They’ve got a cold, bitter taste, reminding him of cheap, tasteless food bought with whatever money his father had earnt back at the docks.

Swinging his legs over the hospital bed, he clambers out and digs around in the over-night bag for some fresh clothes. He pulls on a red plaid, boxer shorts and faded trousers and wobbles into the bathroom. When he’s done, he packs his few things up into his bag, pulling on worn boots and his blue jacket. 

He emerges from the room and finds Beverly lounging back in an armchair reading some magazine about black holes. When he walks in she glances up and beams at him, handing him a coffee. “You ready to go? I picked up some snacks on the way for you. And some dog food, Alana said you were running low.” They walk down to the car park, Will thanking the staff on the way out.

The car ride is long, Beverly easing Will into chatter about the dogs and when he’s silent she babbles about Price and Zeller. There’s a low buzz of music from the radio, wind whistling past the car, engine rumbling. Will dozes off, Beverly glances over and begins humming to the tunes playing.

Soon enough, Will wakes with the halting of the car, climbing out, groggy with sleep. He lopes up to the porch and opens up the door to a barrage of dogs. They’re a pack of pure joy and Will sinks onto his knees to be swept up in the tidal wave of fur. He’s beaming, the dogs making him the happiest he’s been in days.

“There’s new dog food in the cupboard, and Alana said she’d stocked up your fridge for you too.” Beverly leans against the door with crossed arms, her signature stance. “You gonna be okay from now on?”

It’s a stupid question and they both know it. The medicine will wear off and Will is going to end up in hospital again faster than he can say Jack Robinson.

“I’ll be fine, Bev. The dogs will be looking after me here and no doubt there’s going to be someone peering at me like a hawk at work. Probably Jack’s orders. Or Alana’s.”

She leaves, and when the sound of wheels on gravel disappears, Will lets the dogs sleep with him on the bed throughout his broken patterned sleep. There’s no stag in his dreams this night, but something tells him it won’t be gone for long.

 

***

 

A loud bark from one of the dogs pulls Will from the task of creating a new fishing lure. It’s nearly finished, he just has to finish binding the fly to the hook and tie it off. He’ll finish it later. He cracks his back when he stands up, stretching like a sleepy dog from lying in the sun all day. He walks among the dogs all pacing by the door, and opens it when he sees Alana through the screen.

The dogs all rush out, swarming around Alana in greeting before running off. She stands there, paper bags in hand and smiles at Will, enveloping him in a hug as she steps onto the porch. “You look the happiest I’ve seen you in months!” she pushes the bag into his hands when they pull back, “I wasn’t sure if you’d had lunch or not, but I wanted to stop by anyway so I brought some sandwiches. There’s cheese and pickle or tuna mayo.”

The dogs come bounding in, Winston leaning up against Will’s legs when they take their seats for lunch. Will reaches down and ruffles his head, earning an affectionate nuzzle.

“I’m thinking of getting a dog soon, actually” Will watches Alana’s tuck into her sandwich, “a rescue like one of yours, I might go over to the pet shelter in a fortnight or so, have a look, try not to end up with too many.” They talk idly of dogs for a while, washing up the plates when they’re done, walking the dogs through the brush when they begin talking again.

“Will, Jack’s told me to keep having our talks because he wants to make sure you’re not…”

“Broken?” Will suggests, ceasing her floundering.

“For lack of better words, yes.” She picks up a stick and throws it for the dogs, some gambolling after it while others wrestle in the grass. “But…”

Will stops and faces her. “But?”

“But I feel like I am partially responsible for your stay in hospital, Will. There’s this huge amount of... of guilt. I should’ve seen the signs, stopped the illness, Will.”

“...Are you referring me?”

“He’s a good therapist, Will. I took a course of his not so long ago, in fact.” Alana smiles at him. It’s more of a grimace, her voice softening. “He’s nice too, though he’s a little intense but I doubt it will take you too long before you find him interesting.”

Will meets her eyes when she talks, feeling the timid hope spill off her. Other people had their emotion rolling off them, but thankfully Alana and all the other shrinks he’d seen had reined them in. it made Will a tad more comfortable, at least. Her feelings weren’t about to engulf him like the tidal wave that other people’s did.

He took a deep breath, “what’s this guy’s name?”

“Dr Hannibal Lecter.”

“…I’ll give it a go.”

 

***

 

The harpsichord lets forth the melody, its strings serenading the empty room. The lithe fingers of the musician dance upon the keys, setting a fast pace matched by the mechanics of the instrument. It’s a long tune, hurried but calm, swift but leisurely. The melody is getting progressively faster as Domenico Scarlatti’s A Major transforms and morphs into a work akin of Bach’s _Allegro_.

The crescendo falters as the pendulum of the clock swings and strikes seven.

The musician ends the tune with a flourish of notes melting into one another, then ceasing abruptly. The figure stands, walking to the waiting room door and opening it with a swift movement.

A man is stood looking at the prints on the wall, jacket slung over his arm, hands in his pockets. He pivots upon hearing the door open, slowly meeting Dr Lecter’s eyes. His hair is pushed back, and one curl drops over his brow, the expression on his face calm and closed.

“Hello, Will.”

“May I come in?”

Hannibal holds the door open, Will stepping past him and into the office, raising his eyes to take in the décor of the large room. It’s pristine, posh and most of the things in here are probably worth more than Will’s house, each. Hannibal motions for him to take a seat in the room, Will sitting in the large armchair opposite Hannibal. He’s unbuttoned his suit jacket, clasped his hands together over his crossed legs, cocking his head as he watches Will.

Will mirrors his posture, sinking back into the leather cushions. Hannibal is looking at him intently like a hungry wolf would a herd of deer. Will stares at his high, sculpted cheekbones, his Cupid’s bow mouth, chiselled jaw.

“How are you feeling, Will? Has your encephalitis been dealt with, or did the doctors not ensure it was truly gone before releasing you from their care?” Hannibal questions the younger man sat before him, watching him allow himself to relax, the small amount of tension in his muscles dissipating in Hannibal’s presence.

Will raises his gaze to the top of Hannibal’s head, his ashy hair swooping low on his forehead, combed into military-grade perfection. “They prescribed me medication to take each morning, and I have to go back for a check-up soon, but I feel different to how I was before… that. Like some part of me is missing, or has been gained.” He sucks in a breath through his nostrils, “I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

He can see Hannibal’s eyelids narrow as he says that, but then they slide back to the stoic expression again. “What do you mean by that?” his accent is thick, European, and he speaks with a slight lisp.

“Sooner or later there’s going to be another murder, another… interesting one, or however many the next killer takes. It’ll be bizarre enough to guarantee that Jack Crawford will be knocking at my door, asking me to ‘go and take a look’. He’ll keep forcing me to step into the killer’s shoes whenever things go south.” He still hasn’t made eye contact with Hannibal yet, focusing on his nose instead. “Then I’ll be six feet under because of _overworking_ myself.”

Hannibal’s watching those brilliant blue eyes flicker all over his face, fascinated by the movement. The colour is similar to the foam of the sea where Aphrodite was born, cerulean and sapphire.

“I gather that Jack Crawford is persistent in his demand of your talent?” Hannibal shifts, crossing his other leg. “Or perhaps he sees you as a fragile teacup, the finest china, only to be used for special guests.”

Will finally meets his eyes, wide and surprised. It’s a split second before he’s looking away and chuckling. He folds his arms, raising his eyes to look at Hannibal’s with a grin on his face. “How do you see me?”

Will’s smile is distracting. Of course it was meant to humour Hannibal, to mock Jack. Not to woo him. But that’s what it’s doing. It makes him look younger, happier, and significantly more beautiful. Hannibal’s smitten. This must be what Cupid felt when first laying his eyes on Psyche, he thinks. What a siren’s voice would look like if it were a mortal being.

“The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.”

His smile fades, and now Will looks haunted without it. Hannibal wants to take a knife and carve one onto him, peel those lips back and paint blood onto them like a crimson lipstick.

Will stands, ambling over to the harpsichord. He runs his fingers over the keys before hesitantly tapping out a small tune. Hannibal cocks his head at him, perhaps staring too long because Will moves away with a flush on his cheeks. “Sorry, I know I’m not too good at it.”

“Not at all, I just don’t recognize the music.”

“Ah, um. Hot Cross Buns.” Will scratches his head, embarrassed. It’s endearing.

Hannibal walks over to him, amused. He’s stood close enough to see every long eyelash fluttering as Will’s gaze darts around the room again.

“I heard you playing… I’ve never heard a harpsichord before, I don’t think.” Will moves out of the way, stood side by side to the harpsichord instead of directly behind it. Hannibal notices he’s putting space between them.

“Would you like me to play for you, Will?”

He flushes slightly but nods.

Will watches as Hannibal takes a seat on the stool, smoothing his jacket out behind him. He pushes his cuffs up slightly and sits straight, shoulders back. It looks quite like a dance, or a preening swan or some other elegant bird.

Hannibal taps out a tune, making the instrument sing with its fast, harmonious notes. His lithe hands move across the keyboard in a blur, swift and not once pausing. Will raises his gaze to Hannibal’s face, watching with keen eyes as Hannibal rolls his lips with concentration. Other than that, his face is calm and relaxed, peaceful. 

It’s only a couple of minutes before Hannibal stops, bowing a little in front of Will. He has a small, shy smile. 

“Jean-Phillipe Rameau’s _Gigue En Rondeau_. Excuse me, I got carried away.” Hannibal motions for Will to follow him back to their chairs. They talk languidly of Will before the clock strikes eight.

“Will you be staying for dinner?” Will’s standing up to go when Hannibal asks. He turns and sees a hopeful look on the other man’s face.

Will hesitates.

He should say no. The dogs will be hungry. He’s got work in the morning. It takes him long enough to get home anyway. Everything is telling him to say no.

So of course he says yes.

 

***

 

The food looks delicious. It looks like lamb, and Hannibal called it a name in some language Will wouldn’t be able to repeat. Tastes delicious too.

“Hannibal this is… amazing.” The meat is soft and juicy, and there must be a seasoning that Will’s never tried before because it’s weirdly sweet for red meat, unless Hannibal was lying and it isn’t lamb. Will pushes that thought away.

Hannibal meets his eyes and smiles, a soft and relaxed look is a nice change from his serious expression. It suits him.

“I used to work as an emergency doctor, and after I retired I transformed my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts. It’s been a hobby since, and is very useful when having dinner parties, or an old friend for dinner.”

“You used to be a doctor? What made you stop?”

“I couldn’t save a life.” Hannibal is looking at his plate, avoiding him. Will notes it’s the first time he’s done that.

“But you were an emergency doctor. Surely you’re not going to be able to save everyone.”

“I lost one life too many.”

Will stops and takes another bite of the steak, trying not to scarf it down and look like some uneducated buffoon when Hannibal is looking like some important member of the royal family. His thoughts are drifting about but lingering on Hannibal. It’s odd how much Will has begun to trust him, this ex-doctor, his therapist. It’s strange when he’s always been cautious of meeting someone new before now, especially his shrinks.

“Where have you gone, Will?”

Hannibal is watching him, watching Will wade further into his thoughts. He had been sat frozen, eyes blank as his mind travelled elsewhere. Like a taxidermy creature frozen in time.

He jerks back to the present, eyes drifting before fixing on the wine glass. He picks it up and takes a bigger sip than he should have. Almost a swig. He needs a swig.

“Just got lost up here,” he gestures to his head, “nothing unusual.”

Hannibal is staring again, those deep amber eyes peering at him as he analyses the man opposite. He puts his fork down and clasps his hands together on the table.

“So that is normal? To be trapped in your thoughts?”

Will huffs a laugh. “Normal enough that it probably happens more than it should. It’s not that bad, and the doctor said the medication should clear it up now.”

Hannibal doesn’t believe him, instead frowning and dropping his gaze. Now that he’s seen them Will realizes how much he likes those eyes. How much he wants to keep gazing into them.

As Will puts the knife and fork together on the rim of his plate Hannibal looks up with a small smirk across his face.

“Dessert?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did this chapter take so long? Procrastination.
> 
> Let me know what you think!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So we’re searching for a lovesick killer?!”
> 
> “No no no – this killer is controlling, possessive, he wouldn’t just fall in love with anyone, that’s why he’s… why he’s shouting it to the world, telling everyone he has found his soulmate.”
> 
> *
> 
> The Chesapeake Ripper rips again, this time with a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a small chapter, but it was done quite quickly for me anyways.
> 
> Also thanks for all the lovely comments!!
> 
> Enjoy!!

Will wakes to the loud phone ring blaring through the house. He reaches over and grasps it, sitting up and rubbing his eyes when he answers.

“…Hello?”

“Hi Will, it’s Jack.”

“Jack?” The clock on the nightstand reads quarter past three. _In the morning._ Fuck.

“Will, look. I know that I probably shouldn’t be calling, but. There’s been a murder, as in a gruesome one. Not an average homicide, domestic, etcetera.”

“…You mean something like The Shrike? A serial killer?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

“Worse.”

Another pause.

“It’s the Chesapeake Ripper.”

 

***

 

The frosty grass crunches underfoot, wind whistling through the trees in the darkness. Will walks further into the forest amongst the hustle and bustle of tired FBI agents. An owl calls from high in the branches as the sun begins to rise, casting blood red streaks across the morning sky.

“Will.” Jack approaches him as he halts, only a few metres from the crime scene. There is a smell wafting out from behind a tall wall of ivy and shrubs. A familiar smell. Death.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

Will glares at him. “Yeah, well. This is a one off. Don’t get used to it.”

Jack glares right back, but holds his tongue and says nothing.

Walking around the shrub growth, Will’s breath hitches. It’s not an ordinary, simple murder to ease Will back into the job, that’s obvious.

The body is that of a man. A man with blond hair and tan skin. He’s kneeling, his arms outstretched and bound with his own intestines. They’ve also been used to string him up to the trees so he doesn’t fall. His eyes have been gouged out, blood dripping from the sockets like crimson tears. His lips have been pushed back to create a false smile on his expressionless face. Greeting death with a grin.

He’s positioned towards the path that Will had walked from, his grin distorting his features and his gaping eye sockets seeing him approach. Now that he’s close enough, there is a red mass of muscle that Will can distinguish to be his heart. There are red and pink anemones in a circle surrounding the body on the blood stained grass.

“Alright, everyone out!” Jack’s voice booms loud and clear and agents scurry from the scene. Will notices Zeller and Price casting worried looks to him as they clear off.

The scene is evacuated and Will slows his breathing, eyes fluttering shut as the pendulum wipes the crime scene clean.

“I carry his breathing body to my chosen destination. A clearing hidden by shrubbery but exposed enough to be happened upon. He is awake and watches me with scared eyes, but I have paralysed his vocal chords and slashed his spinal cord to prevent any struggle. I do not want him to disturb me.

“I put him down and gouge out his eyes while he is conscious, I do not want to see the despair in those eyes. Doing so, it makes him completely unresponsive. Effectively, he is a corpse.

“I lay him out and cut open his stomach. I remove his large intestines first.” He can see himself pull them out and sever them from the body. “I attach intestine to the waist and the shoulders. They are tied to the trees surrounding the body.”

The man is prevented from falling, and he kneels in the clearing. “I bind his wrists together and tie them up. He is praying to me. I am the one with power here.

“I remove the small intestine, using only a small section to use as a collar for the man. I will keep the rest. That way we can be bound together.” Will finishes collaring the man, taking some of the intestine away for himself. He will use it later. “He belongs to me.”

Will takes his knife to the man’s chest. “I am nearly finished, but the death is not yet perfect. His heart has stopped beating, and I remove it from his chest and place it in his own hands. It is an offering to me. He is sacrificing himself to me.”

Blood paints the grass around the body. Will’s hands are covered in it. “The finishing touch: red anemones and roses to decorate him.” The flowers are used to scatter the ground surrounding them. They worship the body. “Although he belongs to me, I show him my love and throw him flowers. He worships me, and in my own way, I worship him too.”

With a shake of his head, Will is brought back to the present again, gasping and sweating.

“Will?”

“It’s… it’s a declaration of love… or – or what he thinks to be love... not to the man, but someone else,” Will thinks, “he’s found a connection with someone… umm… he has more power over them…”

“So we’re searching for a lovesick killer?!”

“No no no – this killer is controlling, possessive, he wouldn’t just fall in love with anyone, that’s why he’s… why he’s shouting it to the world, telling everyone he has found-”

Will sighs.

“-his soulmate.”

 

***

 

“Will. Please come in.”

Hannibal holds the door open for Will, today with a grey and crimson plaid suit and a vibrant red paisley tie. Will judges silently, even though he can’t imagine him in anything even slightly casual.

Will sits in his usual chair, leg jiggling with tension and unspent energy. Hannibal sinks into his, relaxed. He cocks his head at Will’s odd energy.

“Will?”

Will meets his eyes briefly before glancing away again, eyes scanning the room.

“Jack took me to a crime scene earlier today.”

Hannibal’s small sigh is audible from the three or so feet they are from each other. He re-crosses his legs and clasps his hands.

“Will, you know the consequences of this. You mustn’t let yourself do this.” Will doesn’t even acknowledge Hannibal when he is speaking. “Or let Jack force you to do it.”

Shaking his head, Will looks up into those unintelligible bronze eyes before his own flit away, with the likeness of a field fare hopping from tree to tree.

“Jack is the head of the BAU, Hannibal. I’m the best profiler he has,” he sighs, “what becomes of me from this won’t matter to him as long as I don’t die.”

“And… Jack won’t try another detective on the cases? Another profiler?”

“No. I’m the best at what I do – I can do it faster than anyone else, and Jack doesn’t want to let the other profilers loose because he has me. I’m – I’m a tool, Dr Lecter. Jack sees me as nothing more than his… his fine china for special guests.”

Hannibal’s hands tighten fractionally. Hearing it from Will’s own mouth had made him agitated, he would have to do something about Jack.

Standing, Will begins to pace the room while Hannibal looks on with interest.

“What was this killer doing, Will?”

“He was writing a message to the world- no, this killer is more refined. He was writing a _poem_ to the world. Telling everyone he’s in love, that he’s found a someone he can call his.”

“It was a sonnet.”

Will must have walked at least four laps of the room by now, Hannibal is surprised neither of them are dizzy yet.

“Yes! Talking about this person who he has this power over, this person who worships him like a lover would, almost sacrificing themselves to the killer.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrow. “The lover is sacrificing himself?”

“The killer has a hold over them, and his lover is worshipping him, yes.”

Will comes to a stop at Hannibal’s desk, and skims over the pages of the book lying open. He thumbs the pages while hunching over it.

“The tenth book of _Ovid's Metamorphoses._ It tells the story of the lovers Aphrodite and Adonis.” Hannibal approaches Will, standing close enough they could bump shoulders.

“As in Aphrodite the goddess?”

“Yes. Aphrodite is the goddess of love and beauty and so had the power to make anyone fall at her feet. But when Adonis was born, his beauty was just as great as hers, perhaps even surpassing it, and for the first time in her life she felt what others felt upon seeing her. She became enslaved to the love that she had for him.” Hannibal watched as Will traced the drawings etched into the paper, faces of people forgotten long ago.

“But Adonis had an unfortunate accident, and was killed. In her grief, Aphrodite searched for days to find the body. Once she found it she carried him home, wounding herself on rocks and twigs as she went. Anemones and roses were coloured from the blood dripping from their wounds.”

Will plonks himself in Hannibal’s desk chair, a blank look on his face. His eyebrows furrow while he thinks. Hannibal can almost see the cogs in his head turning, and has a fleeting thought to cut open the man’s skull and see the electric impulses in his brain.

“So… the goddess… the power that she had had on other people throughout her life had been turned on herself?”

“Effectively, yes.”

A groan emerges from Will’s lips as he slumps into the chair, rubbing his face. Hannibal’s ears prick up at the delightful sound.

Will rubs his eyes once more before meeting Hannibal’s.

“The killer isn’t the one with the power over his lover- if you can call them that. No, the killer has found someone that they are in love with, _or can be in love with._ But the lover has a hold over the killer, this powerful being, and this killer is trying to tell them.”

Hannibal smiles.

 

***

 

The clock strikes eight in the middle of Hannibal and Will’s conversation. They pass the book on Hannibal’s desk about Aphrodite and Adonis. Will pauses, running his fingers over the worn, yellowed pages again.

“Can you read Ancient Greek then, or do you just like looking at the pictures in these books?”

Hannibal steps close to Will, smiling at his light teasing. “As a child I was fascinated by mythology, so in college I taught myself Ancient Greek with the two copies of _The Odyssey_ I owned. I think myself fluent in it.” His lie is perfect.

Hannibal opens the door for Will as he exits, checking his watch with a dramatic flick of his wrist.

“You are certain you can’t stay for dinner today?”

Will huffs a laugh, smiling affectionately at Hannibal as he pulls on his jacket. “As much as I would love to, I can’t. What is the dinner today though?”

Hannibal thinks of the meat he recently acquired, and narrows down the list of dishes he could fashion with that ingredient.

“Not even chitterlings would tempt you?”

“What meat is that?”

“Small intestine.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Fic abandoned**

 

Sorry, everyone who's read this. I am leaving this fic - not permanently. I am going to write it again, just because I'm not happy with how I've written it. I do really love this AU I have started, honestly, and I'm sorry to everyone who's enjoyed it and waiting for an update. I promise when I write this it will - hopefully - be better, and am really looking forward to starting it.

 

Thanks to everyone who left lovely comments!!

 

I haven't started it yet because I've currently started about three and there's one I am writing that I'm really invested in and think you guys will like. So I'll release the first chapter of that tomorrow I think, just because I've been delaying it for so long. And as an apology.

 

Sorry and thanks again!!

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment!!


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